The Stone Circle

Though many might hear of my condition and instantly assume otherwise, I have been very fortunate in my life. See, most people only find a peaceful place, a haven, a paradise, after years of searching and may only return every so often. It remains nothing but a distant daydream called upon to distract from life. But I find myself in my paradise once every twenty eight days.

Okay, maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration. Sometimes I’m not able to make it to the Woods every month; those months are painful and lonely and force me to confine myself in a sealed room… but most of the time I am able find myself there.

“Here we are!” I mumble under my breath as I pass the all too familiar broken fence to leave my car in the hidden space behind the rock wall. I lock the car, then carefully hide the keys in a small crevice to assure I can find them later on.

The sun is already setting as I start my journey beyond the fence. My well-worn trail leads me faithfully along the path I know so well, winding this way past a tree and that way around a boulder. My nose isn’t as keen as it will be, but I can still delight in the scent of pine and underbrush. Gentle fluttering leaves sing out above my head as small creatures scurry to and fro under foot. The thought of my hunt excites me, and my heart beats in anticipation.

After a while, I finally see it- the small circle marked by six small stones. This is it; I’m at my paradise, my home, my place where I can truly be me, without fear of harming anyone around me. The place where I can freely feast and indulge without the fear of guilt or the embarrassment of retribution.

I step inside my circle and breathe in the pleasant twilight air. Soft wind tickles my neck and moves my hair in a wild dance of delight. I hear silence; the most pleasant sound my ears could ever dream to hear. I see nothing around me but the grass and rocks of the clearing separating my circle from the trees and bushes that push in from all sides. The light grows dimmer and dimmer, until finally it is time.

The familiar tingle starts in my toes and I hastily kick off my shoes and carefully place each between a pair of stones; I rip off my shirt and lay it down in the next open spot, then gently fold my faded jeans in the adjacent slot. My boxers fit between two more, then suddenly eleven stones lay where six once were, and in my naked solitude I grin at the sky with the thrilling anxiety that always comes before much looked-forward-to events.

It happens slowly, then all at once. My toes grow long as my feet stretch flat. Hair springs from my ankles up toward my head as a tail appears and grows. My nails grow out into claws as I remember just at the last second to tear off my watch before risking its annihilation. I see my nose stick out more prominently in front as my teeth grow sharp and fierce. The last things to change are always my thoughts, allowing me a few seconds of blissful joy before I can only focus on one thing; the last piece of my paradise, the thing I secretly and guiltily look forward to every day between my cycles:

The horrendously warm and thrillingly disturbing taste of a fresh kill.